


Saturday Nightmare Fever

by TheVioletHour (TinternAbbey)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Gen, no trigger warnings unless you're terrified of polyester, or disco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinternAbbey/pseuds/TheVioletHour
Summary: Arthur hates 70's fashion. Eameslovesit.





	Saturday Nightmare Fever

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I highly suggest Googling [1970s leisure suits](https://www.google.com/search?q=1970s+leisure+suits&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwjYkcWm9bveAhWFjFQKHcehAvoQ2-cCegQIABAC&oq=1970s+leisure+suits&gs_l=mobile-gws-wiz-img.3..0j0i8i30j33i299l2.88570.91541..93064...0.0..1.245.3584.0j16j5......0....1.......0..0i67j0i24.AyQW1zd3Tsc&ei=D4TfW5jODYWZ0gLHw4rQDw&prmd=vin&biw=1024&bih=672) if you need a visual aid.  
> 2.) Listening to the Bee Gees while reading this is entirely optional.

Ariadne spotted the disaster first.

Her eyes went wide. She choked on her coffee.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "Arthur, _look_."

"What is it?" Arthur demanded, bent over the blueprints she had brought him. Spies? Assassins? He instinctively reached for his gun, then took a subtle glance in the direction Ariadne was staring.

And his jaw dropped when he saw it.

Eames was strutting—actually _strutting_ —into the empty building they had rented for some dream research, somehow managing not to trip over his white platform shoes. His outfit resembled a suit, only it was obscenely casual and made of polyester. The pants and jacket were a bold mustard yellow.

Beneath the jacket, he wore a hideous paisley shirt. And instead of a tie, he wore a slim gold chain around his neck, like he was trying to be a mobster on _The Sopranos_. Or John Travolta.

Arthur took one look at him, then put away his gun and reached for his totem, praying with all his might that this was just a dream. It _had_ to be a dream. It had to be—

"Holy shit, Eames," said Ariadne, just as Arthur's loaded die confirmed that this was cold, hard reality. "You look like the seventies violently threw up on you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Eames drawled, removing his aviator sunglasses as he approached them. He winked at Arthur. "I believe you're dripping coffee on the floor."

Arthur hurriedly straightened his coffee mug, then shot a glare at Eames. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"It's called a leisure suit," said Eames, sounding absurdly pleased with himself.

"It's an abomination. A suit is _not_ meant for leisure."

"As I've said a hundred times, you have no imagination, Arthur."

"On the contrary," said Arthur, "I'm imagining all the ways I'd like to destroy that outfit." He couldn't bring himself to call it a _suit_. "Preferably with a flamethrower. Or a chainsaw. Have you even _seen_ yourself, Eames? You look like you raided a thrift store."

Eames grinned at him. "Well, it _is_ real vintage."

"Oh, shit." Arthur slowly backed away from him. "I'm standing in close proximity to thrift store polyester? Son of a bitch. Where's the disinfectant?"

* * *

One bottle of disinfectant later, Arthur felt like he was ready to get to work. As long as he kept a blindfold over his eyes.

Eames, the bastard, insisted on parading around in his mustard yellow monstrosity, as if it wasn't the most horrible thing in the world. And Ariadne, the traitor, was actually perched on an empty desk asking Eames what _thrift store_ he shopped at.

"I feel like I don't know either of you anymore," Arthur groaned into his long-empty coffee cup.

"It's really not that bad, Arthur," said Ariadne. "I mean, it's _vintage_. It's a classic."

"A classic mistake," Arthur pointed out. "Which, in case you haven't noticed, is as dead as disco. Nobody wears leisure suits unless they're asking to get ridiculed."

Eames had the desk next to Ariadne, doodling some potential modifications for the PASIV. The sun came through the nearby window and glinted off his stupid gold chain. "I don't know why it offends you so much, Arthur. Can't a man be suited up _and_ comfortable? If you weren't so bloody uptight, you could learn to appreciate a little breathing room."

Arthur had no response to that. But Ariadne did. "I've never seen Arthur in anything comfortable," she told Eames. "I think he wears his suits to _bed_."

"I do _not_ wear a suit to bed," Arthur protested.

"Then what _do_ you wear?" Eames said with a leer. "Nothing at all?"

"I am not having this conversation. With _either_ of you."

Snatching up Ariadne's blueprints, Arthur stalked off so he could hide himself inside a conveniently empty conference room.

And checked his totem one more time, just to be sure.

* * *

Arthur stayed in the conference room for an hour. He spent most of that hour on his laptop, salivating over the latest men's fashions on the Brooks Brothers website. Such exquisite ties and crisp shirts. _Oh_ , the cut of that jacket. Arthur wouldn't call himself a snob, exactly, when it came to clothing, but he couldn't deny that a catalogue full of nice suits was exactly like porn to him.

So he was highly embarrassed when Ariadne knocked on the door, _just_ when a particularly delectable pair of navy blue pants appeared on his screen.

"Arthur? Eames and I are thinking about dreamsharing soon. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Arthur said automatically. "I mean, I _will_ be. Just give me a few minutes."

"Great. In the meantime, can I have my blueprints back? There's something I wanted to check—"

"Don't open that door!" Arthur snapped, suddenly losing every shred of dignity he possessed.

But it was too late.

Ariadne opened the door.

She spent a very long, uncomfortable moment trying not to stare at Arthur's crotch area. He had gotten a little _eager_ over those Brooks Brothers fashions.

"I was suit shopping," Arthur explained. He even showed her the laptop screen as proof.

"I see," said Ariadne, raising her eyebrows at him. As if he had shown her something _dirty_ , for crying out loud. "I'll leave you to it, then."

She slammed the door in her hurry to get out.

Arthur minimized his browser, scowling at the memory of her face. Clearly she didn't understand the _ecstasy_ that came from a well-tailored suit.

At least he could trust her to build a dream that would effectively erase the horror of Eames' latest fashion choices. With little else to do between extraction jobs, Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne tended to run experiments together. Nothing major; mostly practice work involving their skill sets, but it helped to pass the time and allowed them to expand their expertise in manipulating the dream world. And aside from Eames shopping at the Thrift Store From Hell, Arthur was looking forward to the upcoming dreamshare.

He was _not_ looking forward to the look on Eames' face if Ariadne told him what Arthur had been up to. The smug prick would never let him forget it.

Arthur sighed, glanced down at his lap, and got to work on making himself presentable.

* * *

He soon discovered, after they were all hooked in to the PASIV and reality faded before his eyes, that Ariadne could _not_ be trusted.

Her blueprints had consisted of fantastic new terrain for them to explore. Alien planets, medieval castles, underwater kingdoms. Arthur, in all his wildest imaginings (which were _considerably_ more wild than Eames ever gave him credit for) never expected Ariadne to plunge him into a dream world that looked suspiciously like a disco club.

Not just any disco club. _Roller_ disco.

Everywhere he looked, flamboyantly dressed projections were grooving across the roller skating rink, while the Bee Gees blared from the overhead speakers. Arthur checked the closest mirror and was relieved to find himself clad in a sensible suit, solid black and freshly pressed. Never mind the fact that he stood out in this garish seventies crowd. At least he looked _sane_.

He couldn't say the same for Ariadne. She had chosen to attire herself in a pair of deep purple bell bottoms (polyester, of _course_ ) with a striped orange shirt that reminded Arthur of his grandmother's curtains. A pair of rainbow-striped roller skates completed Ariadne's hideous outfit. She grinned at Arthur and dashed off into the roller rink before he could demand an explanation.

"Catchy tune, isn't it?" said Eames, strolling up to Arthur, bobbing his head along to "Night Fever" like a jackass. "Or should I say groovy?"

Eames was wearing the same yellow leisure suit from the waking world. The only difference, in the dream world, was the addition of a mustache and sideburns.

He looked like a porn star.

"What on earth have you and Ariadne done?" Arthur demanded. "This isn't a dream. It's a fucking nightmare!"

"Really, Arthur? You don't dig it?"

The song changed to "Boogie Wonderland" by Earth, Wind, & Fire. It didn't make Arthur feel any better.

"I do _not_ dig it," he answered, voice practically a growl. "And as long as we're in the dream world, I will not hesitate to castrate you, right now, in front of all these circus freak projections!"

"Bad idea," said Eames with a grin. "They're _my_ projections. And since we _are_ in the dream world, allow me to give you another lesson in dreaming a little bigger."

Suddenly, Arthur's suit disappeared. It was replaced by a purple paisley shirt and bell bottoms the color of a fire truck.

Arthur screamed.

Then he promptly shot himself in the head.

* * *

The nightmare never truly ended, though. Arthur entered the building the next morning, styrofoam coffee in hand, and discovered Eames in another leisure suit. This one was blue plaid, with a pale pink shirt underneath. His gold chain necklace looked tackier than ever.

"That's it," Arthur decided, whipping out his phone. "I'm having Saito buy you a new wardrobe."

"You're still in contact with Saito?" Ariadne asked. She had that _look_ on her face again, eyebrows raised.

Arthur successfully kept his cool, browsing through his contacts list. "These buildings and warehouses don't rent themselves."

"Seems the building's not the only thing up for rent if Saito's granting you favors," said Eames, smirking in the filthiest way. "Or are you granting _him_ favors?"

"Is that why you mysteriously disappear on an international flight once a month?" asked Ariadne. "Is Saito secretly your sugar daddy, Arthur?"

Arthur checked his totem to see if he could safely murder them. Unfortunately, he was trapped in reality. "You're _both_ wrong. I do grant Saito favors, but it's not what you think. I've been giving him suit advice."

This time Eames raised his eyebrows. "Suit advice?"

"I've saved him from certain ridicule on more than one occasion, so he owes me. There's nothing dirty about it."

"I don't know, Arthur," said Ariadne, wickedly. "I've seen the way you react to top-notch tailoring."

Arthur shot her a warning look, _daring_ her to say another word. Ariadne immediately became interested in her coffee. Eames simply appeared confused and mildly curious, which at least proved he didn't know about the Brooks Brothers incident.

Arthur intended to keep it that way.

* * *

Unfortunately, keeping his secret meant he had to let Ariadne drag him into another horrible, seventies-themed dreamscape.

"No disco this time," she promised, while the two of them sat by the PASIV, waiting for Eames to return from the bathroom. "And I made Eames swear he wouldn't dream up any outfits for you."

"Why are you in league with him?" Arthur wanted to know. "Is he brainwashing you? Threatening you? Are _you_ being blackmailed too?"

"I think he's right about you," said Ariadne. "You need to loosen up more. Quit restricting yourself so much and have some _imagination_ , Arthur. Admittedly, the leisure suits are a little over-the-top, but we're just trying to get you to have some fun."

"I have plenty of fun," Arthur said stiffly, sitting perfectly prim and upright in his chair.

"With what? The Calvin Klein catalogue? Come on, Arthur. Expand your boundaries and cut loose a little! Unless, of course, you want me to tell Eames you got a raging boner over Brooks Brothers merchandise."

Eames, the king of perfect timing, chose to return from the bathroom just then. "Ariadne, darling, did I hear a somewhat dirty word fall from your lovely lips? Are you trying to corrupt our straight-laced Arthur? I can only wish you luck on succeeding where I have tried and failed far too many times."

He winked at Arthur.

The plaid leisure suit made it ten times creepier.

"Both of you shut up and take me to the dream world," Arthur said with a sigh.

"I think you mean funkytown," Eames corrected.

* * *

Ariadne kept her promise about the disco.

When Arthur opened his eyes in the dream world, he found no strobe lights, high-pitched singing sensations, or dancing projections.

But he _was_ standing on the ugliest shag rug he had ever seen. Its sickly yellow-green color reminded him exactly of puke. Once he managed to tear his eyes from the rug, he discovered he was standing in a basement, which had been filled with equally ugly furniture in shades of orange, maroon, and piss-yellow. The basement's walls were decorated with movie posters like _The Godfather Part II_ and _Taxi Driver_. (Ariadne, the little sneak, had apparently discovered his weakness for Robert De Niro.) When Arthur took a whiff of the air, he swore he could smell weed.

"Well?" said Ariadne. She had dressed herself in a green plaid skirt with a matching vest. "What do you think?"

From the turntable in the corner, Stealers Wheel sang:

_Clowns to the left of me,_  
_Jokers to the right, here I am,_  
_Stuck in the middle with you._

Which felt strangely appropriate.

"The music's a little better," Arthur admitted.

"Does it make you want to boogie?" Eames asked hopefully, smirking at him from the orange-and-maroon couch.

"No, it makes me want to tie you to a chair and slice off your ear."

Eames stared at him, mouth open.

"Like in _Reservoir Dogs_ , you uncultured prick," said Arthur. "What happened to your leisure suit?"

For his dream appearance, Eames had chosen to wear a black Rolling Stones t-shirt tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans. He had topped it off with aviator sunglasses and sideburns thicker than ever.

Eames glanced at himself with a shrug. "I figured this suited the atmosphere better."

"It's not exactly hideous," Arthur said grudgingly. "Except for the sideburns."

"I think they're groovy," said Ariadne, admiring Eames while she sat in a beanbag chair. " _And_ imaginative. Are you really going to spend this entire dream stuck in a three-piece suit, Arthur?"

Maybe the weed fumes were getting to him, but Arthur _did_ feel a little stifled in his starched collar. "I guess not," he said slowly. "As long as it remains tasteful, I _may_ let you relax me a bit."

Definitely the weed fumes.

"Just no polyester," Arthur warned.

"I'll see what I can do," Ariadne said sweetly, while Eames sat up a little straighter on his ugly couch. He stared at Arthur with an infuriating smile that seemed to say, _I'd love to shag you senseless on this shag rug, shagadelic baby._

The bastard.

Moments later, Ariadne made Arthur's suit vanish. She replaced it with a black blazer and a Led Zeppelin shirt. Arthur supposed it could be worse.

 _So_ much worse.

* * *

Two weeks after his experiment in the dream world, Arthur took his monthly flight to Japan. He still wore a three-piece suit, but he decided to leave the tie behind. Just _once_ , and only because Ariadne kept pestering him to relax. For most of the flight, Arthur _did_ relax. He brought a whole stack of menswear catalogues and holed himself up in the bathroom with them, until an irate flight attendant rudely knocked on the door and asked him to get out.

He spent the rest of the flight reviewing all the fashion tips he planned to give Saito. He had even brought extra copies of his catalogues as a gift.

The plane landed. Arthur checked into his hotel and hailed a cab to Saito's office. A secretary showed him to the door, bowing and offering him tea, but Arthur declined. He wanted to get down to business.

Once he was finished having an inevitable heart attack.

Saito stood by the window of his office, gazing out at the city below. He was decked out in a cherry blossom patterned leisure suit that _reeked_ of thrift store polyester. His black platform shoes shone like a pair of mirrors.

Once again, Arthur found himself desperately rolling his loaded die.

Fucking reality.

"Mr. Saito, I'm surprised," Arthur said, fighting to regain his composure. He swore he heard the Bee Gees playing somewhere in the distance, possibly from the reception area. "I didn't think you were interested in vintage."

Saito turned from the window, giving Arthur the full view of his flamingo-colored shirt. The gold chain around his neck had a large "S" dangling from it. "Fashions are like the setting sun, Arthur. They must always rise again."

"I suppose Eames introduced you to his favorite thrift store?"

"Even better," said Saito, smiling at Arthur. "I _bought_ the thrift store."


End file.
